


No Power in the 'Verse

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Category: Cabin Pressure, Firefly
Genre: AU, Douglas to the rescue, Gen, Gerti is a spaceship, M/M, Martin Crieff Whump, Mentions of Violence, Non-Sexual Slavery, Not an actual crossover, Protective Arthur, Set in the Firefly 'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On impulse, Douglas buys a slave in order to save him from a more dreadful fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Cabin Pressure or Firefly.
> 
> This is not an actual crossover with Firefly, meaning it's set in the Firefly universe but neither any of the show's characters nor Serenity make an appearance.  
> I watched the show again recently and came up with this idea, I'm not quite sure about it yet.

 

 

 

The young man had difficulties to hold himself upright, and his knees hurt. He should have been used to it by now, but when he was being forced to kneel for hours, it got really bad, and on some days he could barely walk.

Not only his knees were aching now, though, but his whole body; breathing was paining him, and his head was swimming. He felt increasingly nauseous and strangely dazed and found it hard to follow the conversation, but at least they weren't yelling anymore. He was shaking; he knew he'd probably be punished for it later, but he couldn't make it stop.

Douglas Richardson also found it hard to follow the conversation, if for different reasons: his eyes kept straying over to the slave who was kneeling on the floor of the office. He was not only horribly skinny but obviously in a bad shape, looking as though he might keel over at any moment now. There was a swelling next to his left eye and Douglas thought he could see some crusted blood in the messy auburn hair.

Douglas had been to the outer rim enough times that he should neither have been appalled nor surprised that there were still slave-traders out there, offering their services to every ship which happened along, but it still put him off. People like Gordon Shappey happily ‘employed’ those poor souls, uncaring about their fates and what had made them slaves in the first place, as long as he got his money's worth of work out of them.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Carolyn, who had raised her voice again: “... better do _not_ bother me again!”

The slave trader, a pudgy man called Bowen, huffed, throwing a nasty glance at the young man as if it was his fault that they didn't want to buy him, and turned to go, but Douglas stopped him: “I'll take him.”

Bowen stopped in his motion, while Carolyn exclaimed “Douglas! I thought I was very clear about the matter!”

Douglas, who didn't trust Bowen one bit, didn't take his eyes off him: “I'm not purchasing him for MJN, Carolyn.”

At this, the slave trader broke into a salacious grin: “Well, well, ne'er heard of _tha'_ before.”

Douglas felt rage welling up in him: “Twenty units, you said? Look at him, he's hardly worth that much, all starved and battered.”

Bowen narrowed his eyes: “Why buyin' 'im anyway?”

“Because you disgust me. Here's twenty. Now give me the key and get out.” It was remarkable that he didn't curse.

Bowen carefully tested the units' authenticity before handing the key over and turning towards the door: “'ave fun. But don't break 'im.”

 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Carolyn put her hands on her hips: “Douglas! What on _earth_ are you thinking!”

Douglas' gaze wandered over to the slave he had just obtained: “Look at that absolutely miserably creature, Carolyn,” he said quietly. “What if this was Arthur?”

Carolyn was about to answer when there was a commotion outside: she exchanged one alarmed look with Douglas, then the both of them were out of the door.

Luckily enough, they hadn't left their ship unguarded. The thieves, undoubtedly hired by Bowen to plunder and pillage while he was distracting his customers, had met unexpected resistance in the form of Arthur and Herc. People on the outer planets tended to underestimate Gerti, due to her rather unassuming, slightly run-down exterior.

After the situation had been dealt with, Carolyn sighed: “Okay, we'll be off in five. Douglas, better get that slave of yours.”

 

The slave had found himself alone all of a sudden, still chained to the customary ring of steel on the wall. He was vaguely aware that he didn't have to leave with Bowen, which was a small relief, but he had no idea what would happen next. He hoped it wasn't going to be as bad as with his former owner; he had been cruel and never satisfied with his slaves' work.

The young man was clumsy and sometimes broke things, which had led to beatings or restrictions of the barest necessities, such as food, sufficiently warm clothes or sleep; there had never been enough of each anyway, and his owner knew how to make it even worse. His station had been raided by a rivaling entrepreneur a few days previously, and the young man had survived through sheer luck, because he had been buried under the rubble of a collapsing shed and been left for dead. Only he hadn't been dead, and Bowen, always scavenging, had found him. Well, better him than Reavers, probably.

The nausea got worse when everybody had suddenly left the office, and the young man hadn't been able to subdue a sudden bout of retching; he painfully expelled the meagre contents of his stomach, struggling back into a remotely upright position afterwards; his ribs hurt as though someone had kicked them, every movement sent waves of agony through his body. His eyes were watering and he was positively shaking now; this definitely wasn't a good start.

Just then, he heard the door open and closed his eyes, praying it wouldn't hurt too much, whichever punishment it was going to be.

 

Douglas subdued a sigh: the young man was a sorry sight, shaking like a leaf and deathly pale, and oh, great, apparently he had just vomited. Time to get out of this hell hole.

“What's your name?” Douglas said by way of trying to engage the obviously very scared and probably ill man in a conversation.

It took a moment before he got a reply; for a moment, he thought the slave wasn't going to answer at all.

“M-my name is M-martin... Master.” He didn't look up but kept his gaze trained at the ground.

“Pleased to meet you,” Douglas said, “and you don't have to call me ‘Master’, my name is Douglas. I'm going to take that ridiculous thing off of you now.”

Despite the announcement, the slave flinched when he felt Douglas' hands opening and removing the collar; he was being gentle, something Martin wasn't used to.

“Can you get up?” Douglas then asked, offering a hand.

With an obvious effort, Martin scrambled to his feet, but his legs wouldn't support him after two hours of kneeling. He swayed and sagged against Douglas, who easily caught him; he could feel the unnatural heat radiating from the young man, the tremor in his body, which altogether felt too lithe and insubstantial.

Horrified and in pain, Martin tried to stand but found he couldn't. “F-forgive me, Master,” he managed to say before his body simply gave out and he lost consciousness.

Douglas dropped the collar on the soiled floor, cautiously lifted Martin up and carried him outside and to the waiting ship; he didn't weigh much, considering his height.

Douglas went straight through to the infirmary, where he eased his charge onto one of the cots and moved him into recovery position. He then stood and simply stared down at him for a while, taking in his appearance: there was indeed dried blood in his hair, and he had dark smudges underneath his eyes. His clothes were threadbare and ripped and bloodied in places. Damn slave traders, he swore under his breath, then he turned to go and find Arthur.

 

24 hours later found Gerti on her home planet, a small affair much nearer to the core. Douglas was glad that he could take the young man to a hospital. He had not come to once during the flight or the transport; Arthur had been watching over him and cleaned off the worst of the blood and dirt, but it seemed that there were more injuries than met the eye, and they hadn't dared moving Martin too much. They had given him some water and broth, which he had kept down, but hadn't been able to do much more for him.

The doctor, after examining the poor sod, fixed Douglas with a stern stare: “This obviously is a slave. Does he belong to you, sir?”

“No. I... found him.”

It was hard to tell whether the man believed him, but Douglas didn't care. “How is he?”

“He's clearly been subjected to violence,” the doctor said, looking at his notes. “Apart from numerous bruises and old as well as barely healed whip marks on his back, he's sustained two partially fractured ribs, a concussion, a ruptured spleen and a sprained wrist. He's severely dehydrated and malnourished, and he's running a high fever. He's in surgery now.”

Arthur, who had come with Douglas, went pale and quickly sat down on the nearest chair. He couldn't imagine why anyone deserved such a treatment.

The doctor cast a glance at him, seemingly hesitating to continue. Douglas, sensing that there was more, addressed Arthur: “Arthur- why don't you go and see if there's a gift shop. Maybe you'll find something for Martin to cheer him up when he awakes.”

Arthur slowly got to his feet: “Yeah...”

When he was gone, Douglas nodded in order to signal the doctor to go on. He had a dreadful feeling that he knew what was coming.

“Considering how rather bad off he is on the whole,” the doctor said gravely, “I'm obligated to point out that it is possible he was subjected to sexual violation as well. In that case, I would advise some counselling if he wasn't a slave.”

Douglas struggled to keep calm at these words: “Thank you. And he's free now, so you will stop calling him thus. I do have to insist that he receives the best possible care, I will pay for everything; if it includes counselling, that's all right.”

The doctor nodded, fresh suspicion in his eyes.

Douglas ignored it: “So what are the prospects?”

The doctor shook his head: “Not so good, to be frank. I can't promise you anything.”

“Meaning?” Douglas prompted.

“He might not survive. If he gets through surgery, the next 72 hours will be crucial. If the fever doesn't abate during that time, his body will very likely succumb to its weakened state.”

Douglas nodded, though it hit him harder than he´d expected. Martin was a stranger, after all. Yet he found that he cared about the young man, and he wanted him to live.

When Arthur returned from the gift shop with a teddy bear, he sat down next to Douglas, unusually silent.

 

After another hour, a nurse came to tell them that Martin was out of the surgery and in a recovery room. Douglas asked Arthur to wait while he went to see Martin in the ICU. He had been propped onto his side and was hooked up to several monitors and two IV lines; an oxygen mask was covering his nose and mouth. He looked even more pale in contrast to the stark white bed linen, his skin almost translucent where it wasn't flushed with fever.

Douglas stood there, frozen, and just looked at him.

He jumped when there was a sudden movement just right outside his field of vision: it was Arthur.

“I told you to wait-“

“You've been in here for half an hour,” Arthur defended himself, “I thought maybe he had woken up.” He stepped up to the bed, seemingly intimidated by the machinery and how lifeless Martin looked.

“Do you think he'll be all right?” he asked, inching closer. “He looks so... small.”

Douglas didn´t have the heart to tell Arthur what the doctor had said, so he gave a non-committal shrug, which the younger man didn't see anyway, as his attention was entirely on the figure in the bed.

When Arthur was standing right next to Martin, he reached out and tentatively touched his hand: “Martin, it's Arthur. Strictly speaking, you don't know me, but... well, there's no one else, apart from Douglas of course, so... nice to meet you, again, and I hope you'll be better soon.”

Douglas smiled faintly: “That was a very nice thing to say,” he murmurs.

They came back every day, Douglas and Arthur. Since there was no job, they had some time on their hands.

Martin's condition remained critical at first, the fever even peaking before it finally began to drop after two and a half days.

Arthur had taken to talk to Martin as though they were old acquaintances, while Douglas remained mostly silent.

 

On the fifth day, Martin opened his eyes when Arthur touched his hand. He stared at him unfocused and heavy-lidded for a few seconds before his eyes closed again.

 

Sounds. Steady sounds in the background. Floating. Stillness. His limbs felt heavy and numb. He couldn't move but not in a bad way; at least nothing hurt. Something soft beneath his fingertips, which seemed odd. He'd never slept on something soft.

He flinched when something touched him, but there still was no pain. His vision was blurred, but someone talked in a friendly voice, and he somehow knew that he didn't need to be afraid.

 

Every day, Arthur sat with Martin, telling him about Gerti and their jobs and Snoopadoop. He didn't know why, but he liked Martin, who looked like a decent chap. He was too thin and needed feeding up, and Douglas had explained to Arthur how Martin would very likely be afraid of them once he would be able to stay awake for longer periods, and how he would need time to adjust to a new life. Arthur had already come up with ideas how to help Martin, and was thinking about him a lot. The concept of being a slave was incomprehensible to him, and it occupied his mind.

Even Carolyn had begun to ask how Martin was doing, which was awfully nice of her in Arthur´s opinion.

Then there was another job. Arthur tried to wriggle out of it, for the first time he could remember not keen on flying out with the crew, but as luck would have it, they had passengers, so he was needed.

They were away for five days; when they came back, Douglas and Arthur headed straight to the hospital.

 

TBC

Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

There was another person in the room in ICU, and Arthur paled. Douglas however asked a nurse, who confirmed that Martin had been transferred to another station since his condition was stable.

They were dismayed to find that his limbs were restrained. Douglas immediately went to find someone whom he could ask about it, while Arthur approached the bed, transfixed by the sight and near tears. Martin's right wrist and his ankles were bound; as the left wrist was injured, the fourth restraint was tied around his upper arm, which seemed rather ridiculous and uncomfortable. Martin looked pitiful as he lay there, and Arthur tentatively reached out again, touching his hand.

Martin flinched, and his eyes opened. They were red-rimmed and glassy. He seemed exhausted, but his gaze focused on Arthur this time.

“Hi,” Arthur said, nervously, attempting to smile. “I'm Arthur.”

Confusion showed on Martin's face.

“I've been with you most of the time,” Arthur explained, “while you were still unconscious.”

“F-forgive me... Who are you?” Martin's voice was hoarse, he barely managed to get the words out.

“Arthur Shappey.” Arthur didn't know how to elaborate.

“M-master?”

“No!” Appalled, Arthur hurried to explain: “I'm not your master, I'm your friend! Well, at least I hope I am, seeing as you don't know me and I don't really know you.”

Right then, Douglas came into the room with another doctor and a nurse in tow, and Arthur could tell that he was angry.

The nurse immediately removed the restraints while the doctor defended himself: “He's a slave, that's standard procedure. We have to answer to the owner if they run off, after all.”

Douglas once more barely managed to keep calm: “He's not a slave anymore. Who ever gave you that idea?”

“Apart from the nature of his injuries, he's got the standard tattoo on his hip,” the doctor replied. “And it's of course mentioned in his medical file.”

“What someone apparently forgot to mention in there is that he's free now.”

 

Arthur turned his attention back to Martin, who had paled even further, and was tentatively rubbing his arm where the restraint had been. He stilled when he felt Arthur's gaze on himself and seemed to shrink back.

“It's going to be all right,” Arthur assured him, “Douglas will sort it out. He does that, he's good at it.”

Douglas was currently motioning towards the bed with his head: “Do you really think he's going to vamoose? Have you even had a proper look at him?”

The doctor sighed: “Mr Richardson, you have made your point. He is not going to be restrained any longer, and I have changed his status on the file papers. If that's all for now, I have other things to do.”

Douglas shook his head: “A word outside, if you please.”

Arthur watched them leave again, then looked at Martin. He was trembling.

“Are you cold? I can get you another blanket-“ Arthur broke off. Even he could see that the tremor didn't spring from that. Martin looked terrified.

He touched Martin's hand again, ignoring the flinching, and very gently took Martin's cold fingers in his own: “Don't be scared,” he said. “No one's going to hurt you.”

Martin didn't look convinced: “He's angry,” he whispered.

“Who, Douglas? Yes, he is, but not at you.”

Martin's whole body was tense, but he didn't answer. Arthur, at a loss about what to do, kept holding his hand until Douglas came back; the trembling at least subsided. He could however feel Martin tense up even more when Douglas stood next to him: “Hello,” he said, “good to see you're awake.”

Martin avoided his gaze: “Thank you, Master.”

Douglas subdued a sigh: “I'm not your master, Martin,” he said gently. “You are free.”

Martin was beginning to tremble again: “That's... not possible.”

Douglas shifted his weight from one foot to the other: “Yes it is. I b- I gave Bowen the money he wanted, and I don't want a slave. I don't think anybody has the right to enslave other people.”

Martin still didn't look at him: “I'm in your debt then,” he says, his voice very low.

Douglas waved it off: “Don't worry about that.”

 

But Martin couldn't stop worrying about it. Now that the drugs were being reduced and he was no longer sedated, he lay awake wondering. He didn't know how to be free. He couldn't read or write, and he didn't have any money. He could work, of course, but who'd employ him? And what if Douglas wanted him to repay his debt in other ways? He shuddered, not wanting to imagine what that might entail.

Free or not, he still was at the mercy of others. He felt like curling up and hiding, which however wasn't possible if he wanted to escape.

Each day he waited until he was alone, then he'd get up and out of bed, which proved difficult at first. He could barely keep himself upright, and his legs threatened to give out under him. Clinging to the IV stand with his good hand, he somehow managed to take a few steps, despite feeling dizzy, despite the protest of his ribs. And on the following day, a few steps more.

 

Inevitably, Arthur walked in on him on the third day, nearly causing Martin to topple over the IV stand and fall, if it had not been for the younger man's quick reactions. He caught Martin in time and helped him back to the bed.

"Are you all right?" he asked, seemingly genuinely concerned.

Martin sat hunched in on himself with tightly closed eyes, panting because of the pain. His blood was rushing in his ears, he barely heard Arthur's words. It took him a few minutes to recover, and once he was able to breathe normally again, he didn't dare to look at the other man.

"I did not mean to run away," he said, softly.

"Oh, of course not, why would you?” Arthur's voice was cheerful. “Did you want to go to the loo?"

"No," Martin replied, hesitantly, "I didn't. I just... I wanted..." he broke off, unsure what to say.

"Did you just want to walk a bit?" Arthur asked.

Martin nodded, feeling himself flushing some more.

"It's awful to just be lying in bed all the time, isn't it?" Arthur went on, "I know how that feels. Whenever I'm ill, Mum won't let me get up until _she_ thinks I'm well enough, no matter what the doctor says."

"Your mother?" Martin asked softly, looking up for the first time, if not directly at the other.

"Yeah, she's brilliant. I mean, she's very strict as well, but in a brilliant sort of way." Arthur beamed at him.

Martin averted his gaze; he barely remembered his own mother. He recalled softness and a sense of safety, but he didn't have any memory of her voice or what she looked like. A sudden burst of longing shot through his veins so strongly he could have wept.

"Do you want to try again?" Arthur asked, pulling Martin out of his thoughts. "Walking, I mean."

Martin hesitated. He didn't quite understand why Arthur felt the need to be friendly to him, or even to help him. And yet, he seemed to mean it. It was nice, somehow, but also unfamiliar and a bit disconcerting. Yet now Arthur looked at him with an expectant smile and held out his hand: “Come on, you can lean on me.”

Rather timidly, Martin accepted Arthur's support, which albeit was much better than the IV stand.

“Are you okay?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Y-yes, thank you.” Martin cleared his throat nervously. Just as he hadn't experienced a lot of friendliness so far, he wasn't used to this sort of physical contact either.

 

Slowly, they walked back and forth between the window and the door a few times; Martin didn't want to leave the room, seeing as he wasn't actually allowed to get up yet.

He was relieved once Arthur had eased him down on the bed again: “Thank you,” he repeated. “That... that was good.”

Arthur beamed at him: “I think so, too, Martin, you did really well!”

“That's not what I-”

In his excitement, Arthur didn't seem to hear him:“Oh, I nearly forgot- I brought you something.” He rummaged in his backpack and eventually produced a tin: “I made these for you.”

Martin didn't know what to say. Slaves didn't get gifts, only hand-me-downs at the most.

While he was still grasping for words, Arthur continued to talk: “I'm sorry, I forgot that you can't open it with just one hand. I'll open it for you, shall I ?” Without waiting for an answer, he pried the lid up and showed Martin the content: “These are chocolate biscuits. I know they're a bit Christmas-y even though that's not for a few months yet, but they're my favourites and also the only ones I can bake. Here, try one.”

Martin however had yet to wrap his head around the notion that someone had baked something just for him.

“F-for me?” he stammered, properly looking at Arthur for the first time, his expression so full of perplexity that Arthur needed a moment to comprehend.

“Yes, of course they're for you,” he said, somewhat more quiet. “You're my friend, aren't you?”

Martin wished he could get away. He didn't know how to deal with so much unsolicited affection, or rather, affection in general. It wasn't something which had happened to him a lot, and yet here was a stranger who didn't seem to have a single mean bone in his body and all but showered him with it; the teddy bear probably was from him as well.

He felt his ears and face growing hot and feared that he was probably affronting Arthur by not saying anything, yet he was helpless as how to react. His uninjured hand balled up the fabric of his hospital gown in agitation, and he wasn't aware that he was trembling.

Arthur's ears turned pink as well: “I'm sorry,” he said rapidly, “it's probably a bit unfair of me because you don't even know me that well. Or at all, really, but you do know that my name is Arthur. I've told you a lot about me, but that was when you were still unconscious, so it probably doesn't count. And I don't know much about you either, but I'd _like_ to get to know you.”

Martin hunched in on himself a little further: “W-why?” he all but whispered.

“I'm not sure,” Arthur answered truthfully. “At first I only felt really sorry for you, but then I visited you every day and now it's like you've always been here and I think you're nice.”

“I'm... I was a slave.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Doesn't that bother you?”

“No, why would it?”

“Because I'm worthless.”

The silence which followed was thundering.

Arthur stared at Martin in such utter disbelief that the former slave shrank back from him: “But that's not true,” he eventually managed, his voice shrill because of his dismay. “You're not worthless, Martin!”

Martin didn't have an answer to that. It was customary for slave owners to abuse their slaves, physically and also verbally, and he had been addressed in nothing but demeaning terms for most of his life. Arthur didn't know what it had been like; he'd probably never been beaten or half-starved just because he had supposedly done something wrong or broken a cheap tool. He'd very likely always been called by his name, too. He had been free, and presumably loved.

Martin flinched when he felt Arthur's hand on his own, but the touch was tentative, gentle even.

“I know you've been treated badly,” Arthur said, sounding appalled at the thought. “And I'm really sorry about that. My Mum says slavery is wrong and I agree. I'm really glad that you're free now. No one has the right to own other people or tell them such lies!”

Martin closed his eyes; he was shivering visibly by now, intimidated afresh by the prospect of freedom and the notion that he had no idea how to proceed. He only knew how to be a slave.

Arthur looked at him, helpless because his words obviously hadn't made anything better, on the contrary. Racking his brain about what else to say, he thought of how Douglas had told him that Martin would need time to adjust and that he very likely was going to be afraid of them at first. Maybe that did apply to more than the people around him, he realized.

“It's okay to be scared,” he therefore said as calmly as he could, trying to sound gentle. “But I will be your friend, if you'd like that, and I won't let anyone say or do anything bad to you ever again.” Tentatively, he squeezed the fist that was Martin's hand: “My Mum said no one is worthless unless they treat others as if they were. And she's _always_ right.”

Martin opened his eyes again and his hand slowly unclenched underneath Arthur's fingers; the trembling lessened as well. He looked exhausted though: “Thank you,” he said very softly. “I... “ He glanced sideways.

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur sprang to his feet, nearly knocking the cake tin over,“of course, silly of me. You should get back into bed, you must be knackered.”

It was in fact a relief to lie down, and Martin, even though his mind was reeling, could feel the onset of sleep.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, avoiding Arthur's eyes again, “you've been very kind.”

 

When Arthur left the hospital ten minutes later, he was rather sad; Martin obviously was off worse than he'd have expected, and it pained him that he hadn't been able to help him properly, or to at least get him to try the biscuits.

But one thing was clear, at least: whether Martin wanted it or not, he had found a friend in Arthur. One had to start _some_ where, after all.

 

**TBC**

 


End file.
